


On the first day of Christmas...

by Socksheep



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 12 Days of Christmas, M/M, Pre-Slash, friends to lovers (eventually)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-25
Updated: 2015-12-18
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:11:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5292128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Socksheep/pseuds/Socksheep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>25 short Johnlock ficlets showing how they eventually get together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A partridge in a pear tree

**Author's Note:**

> My first ever fanfic. Please be kind!

"What the.... Sherlock?! What the hell have you done this time?" 

John coughed and spluttered through the angry shout on coming home to find the flat full of choking, thick black smoke. The windows were thrown open by a tall, thin shadowy figure John could barely see through the smoke and slowly the air began to clear. 

"Go on, then. What was it this time? A vital experiment in charring flesh? That's what it smells like... Oh God, is there a charred limb in the oven?"

Sherlock looked guilty even as he went on the defensive:

"No, of course not, John, what do you take me for?" 

John rubbed a hand wearily across his face and sighed. "What then? Not a head. Please Sherlock, not a head!? I cook in that oven, for Christ's sake!"

"When? I haven't seen you cook in that oven in 2 years! Granted, you occasionally use the hob, but you know as well as I do that we mainly live off takeaways!"

"Sherlock, that is not the point! I would like to have a kitchen, and a cooker, that I can safely use for food prep without coming across large chunks of decomposing human flesh! Is that too much to ask?"

"Really John, you are overreacting. There could not possibly be any contamination from something so heavily charred. All microbes will be extremely dead. It's perfectly safe."

John heaved a huge sigh of exasperation and raised his eyes to the heavens (a gesture that Sherlock found exceedingly pointless since they were indoors and thus all John achieved was a view of some slightly watermarked plaster), and stormed out. Sherlock sighed, and began to clean up.

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Later that evening John returned to 221B to find the kitchen spotless, the smoke smell mostly gone (though it lingered in the fabric of his armchair), and a bag of takeaway Chinese waiting on the table. He was momentarily struck dumb by this unusually thoughtful peace offering from his mad flatmate. 

Just then, Sherlock appeared from his bedroom in pyjamas and his blue silk dressing gown.

"Ah, John. *Ahem*" he coughed, looking embarrassed. " I thought perhaps you might like some chow mein, since my earlier attempts to provide sustenance were not an unparalleled success". 

John ran this through his head a second time to check he had understood properly.

"Wait, that was...? You were... Cooking?"

"Indeed John. I think it best if I refrain from any further attempts for now. It is surprisingly more complex than it appears".

"Right... Well, thanks for the takeaway, anyway. And I'm pleased to know it wasn't charring human flesh after all. Wait... It wasn't, was it?"

"For God's sake John, what do you take me for? I know Donovan likes to call me a freak but I'm not a cannibal!"

"Right, sorry, sorry. I didn't really mean.... Oh, never mind. So what were you cooking then?"

"If you must know, partridge roasted with pears. It seemed appropriate".

Sherlock flushed rather pink and whirled away to his bedroom in a flurry of blue silk, leaving John perplexed with a mouthful of chow mein. What was up with him this time? Oh well, John decided. Probably just embarrassed that cooking had turned out not to be one of the many things that seemed to come so easily to his talented friend.


	2. John gets a glimpse of Sherlock's past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is confused by his flatmate's stranger-than-usual behaviour and consults Greg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for horrendously long delay in updating. Just busy Christmassing with 2 small kids!

"He cooked? What, seriously?" Greg seemed incredulous, almost choking on his pint when John casually mentioned Sherlock's odd behaviour the previous day.  
"Well, I think 'cooked' is a bit charitable in this case. More 'cremated', if I'm honest" John replied, wondering what the big deal was. It wasn't like this could be the first time Sherlock had ever cooked, could it? He was a grown man, for God's sake... He had been living alone before John moved in, and despite that skinny frame and his propensity to forget about meals, he had to keep himself alive somehow, right?  
"Um, John.... Sherlock does not cook. Until you moved into 221B together I think there were books stored in his oven. I have known the guy for ten years and he just Does. Not. Cook."  
"You mean you've never seen him cook. Why would you? The guy hardly ever eats as it is!"  
Greg shook his head. "No, John, listen: has he ever even bought food since you've been there? Like, ever?"  
"Well, no.... Lazy git won't go to the shops, always sends me... But he gets takeaway sometimes..."  
"Ever seen him pay?" Greg asked, quirking an eyebrow and looking smug.  
"Well no, Angelo always gives him free food in return for some help in the past... Something about escaping murder charges by proving he was burgling somebody at the time..."  
"Anywhere else? What about Chinese, Indian? Ever see him take out his wallet?" Greg pressed.  
"Now that you mention it, no...." John mused. "I suppose I assumed they all owed him a favour somehow?"  
Greg shook his head, downing the rest of his pint then signalling the batman for another.  
"Then why the hell do they give him food? What, is he so posh he has an account with every eatery in London? And what does this have to do with him cooking, anyway?" Demanded John.  
"Shit, he'll kill me for telling you this..." Greg sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "Look, don't let on that you know, alright?"  
John snorted. "What, you mean conceal things from Mr 'I know 200 types of ash on sight'. Yeah, that'll be a piece of cake!"  
"Yeah, you have a point. Well, you still need to know this really, just try not to tell him it came from me. Look, you know about his addiction, yeah?"  
John frowned. "What little he'll tell me, yeah. Not a lot."  
Greg snorted. "Yeah, he won't want to tell you all the sordid details. Probably figures you might not like that part of his history too much, you being a doctor... Still, that's how I met him. Passed out in a doorway, stinking of God-knows-what, sleeping off the effects of his last high. Just so happened that there'd been a stabbing on that street that night and I was looking for witnesses. Good job I found him. It went down to minus 5 that night and he was skin and bone... He'd probably have been dead by morning himself if I hadn't hauled him into hospital". Greg sighed, running his hand over his face again, flinching at the memory.  
"Jesus". John closed his eyes in pain at the thought of Sherlock in such a state and sent up a silent thanks to somebody that Greg had found him.then his look of confusion returned. "So... The food?" He asked.  
"Mycroft", Greg answered. "Turned up the following day and whisked him off to a private hospital, then rehab, got him a flat, browbeat my superiors into ignoring me consulting him on cases... Oh yeah, and paid off damn near every restaurant in a two-mile radius to feed Sherlock whenever they set eyes on him. Pretends to be the ice man but obviously bloody shaken up to find his little brother like that, and bloody determined not to let it happen again".  
John thought on this flood of information for a bit, pulling at his pint and frowning. Damn, every time he thought he knew something about his mad flatmate the ground seemed to shift under his feet yet again.  
After a few minutes sat in silence, Greg cleared his throat. "Look, sorry John, that was a lot to drop on you and I'm really sorry, but I've gotta get going, I'm on the early shift tomorrow... Are you going to be ok? "  
"Sure, sure. Of course!" John replied, seeing Greg look doubtful. "I've seen worse things, Greg. Don't worry about me, I'm tough", he grinned.  
"All right, mate. Thanks for the pint. We should do this more often, yeah? There's a match on Saturday, fancy catching that?" Greg asked, hopefully. None of his team were that into football and his mates who used to play all seemed to be stuck at home with wives and kids these days. It would be nice to have another single bloke to hang out with.  
"Sounds great. Text me the time, yeah?" John replied. "Unless his Nibs has found a nice juicy beheading or something by then..."  
Greg shuddered. "Don't even joke! Christ, I hope I never get one of those to clear up! Night, John!" He tugged on his jacket and made his way out of the pub, leaving John to sit quietly again for a few minutes, deep in thought. His quiet reverie was shattered by the sudden clang of a bell.  
"Time, gentlemen, please!" Shouted the landlord. John looked at his watch, sighed, and drained the dregs of his pint. At least he didn't have duty at the clinic tomorrow. Now he just had to hope he would be allowed to sleep, and not be awoken at 3am to the strains of the violin. He shrugged his arms into his battered black coat and wandered slowly back to Baker Street, deciding to leave the mystery of his flatmate's first foray into cooking for the morning.


End file.
